


Scribble

by LizzieHoultLawrence



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Feelings, Pain, Self-Harm, Short Story, relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-01 01:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4001134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieHoultLawrence/pseuds/LizzieHoultLawrence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had a bad day and felt like scribbling.<br/>Trigger warning: self-harm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so this is the first work I've published in a long time and it came from a dark place. If you struggle/have ever struggled with this before I hope you can relate. I'm sorry if you're angered about my work, I just needed to vent.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is worth a read. If you stuggle/have ever struggled with this, I hope you can relate. Feel free to inbox me if you want someone to talk to. Have a pleasant reading.

I'm sitting down on a bench on a park. My breathing is labored and I can see my breath ease out of my mouth. I can't remember how I got here. I don't remember putting shoes on, leaving the house and the running.  
Everything burns a bit. My legs, my chest, my cheeks, tinted from the cold gusts of wind. The small cuts on my arm. I don't remember making them. I just focus on the burning feeling. The three letters etched on my thigh and the two small lines on my arm.  
I lift my sleeve to check them. They were just grazes, so they're not bleeding. I try and steady my breathing. The skin is red where the blade scribbled on and slightly swollen, nothing out of the ordinary.  
I've had worse days than this. I tell myself that I just needed to regain control. I just needed to feel, to put my mind back in order.  
I try to not remember my childhood, it's not like I remember much. My memories are fading slowly, as the years go by. But I don't try and kid myself. I don't remember the conversations I had yesterday. I don't remember what I had for lunch the day before. My eyes begin to burn too. I remember names and faces and the things I've fucked up with. They seem to swamp everything else right now, and that doesn't help my breathing.  
I asked her to forget about me. As I bolted out the door and ran, I heard her shouting behind me and the door slamming. I'm glad she didn't come after me, I don't really feel in a talkative mood.  
I hear steps crunching the fallen leaves on the ground and I lift my head to see a woman pass by, earbuds on, she doesn't spare me a glance and I release my breath.  
Smoke comes out of my mouth. It's been at least half an hour and I'm still on the same bench, resting back, with my legs streched in front of me and the cigarrette hanging from between my middle and pointer finger. After I finish this one, I promise myself I'll chew some gum. She doesn't like the smell of smoke, she says that kissing me after a smoke is like making out with an ashtray. My lips want to ease up in a smile. I don't know why I'm bothering though. It's not like I expect her to still be there when I decide I've had enough fresh air. I stare up at the buildings from across the park and my mind wanders to dark thoughts I haven't had for more than a year now. A lot of things had helped keeping me from thinking it: her, working out, academic stuff. It blew up. Things became suddenly too much, too fast, and I lost it.  
That's when I hear steps again. She sits right beside me and I quickly put out my cigarrette and reach for my pack of gum.  
We don't say anything for a while, just staring in the distance. A sigh, her hand reaches for mine and intertwines our fingers, her other hand caressing my arm gently, her fingers kissing my bruised skin, barely even there. She promises me that it'll be ok. That I... we'll be okay. I let go of her hand to put my arm around her shoulder and hug her sideways. I kiss her hairline and say that I'm sorry. She just nods her head to acknowledge me, but I know that she'll say she doesn't need an apology.  
We stay like this for a long time. I want to ask what she did with my blade, if she threw it away, but decide to worry about that later. For now, her heat, steady breathing, her smell and her touch are enough to keep me grounded.  
For now.  
I just wish things were easier. That I didn't have a bad day and that I hadn't made her cry. I just want tomorrow to be better.


	2. Not Today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's chapter two, I hope it sparks some hope. I've only written three so far and might write more if I have to. Good reading.

I feel sleepy. My mind keeps slipping and it's hard to focus. I can't keep still in my chair. I squirm, and bob my leg up and down, swing my torso back and forth, crack my knuckles and my neck. I rub my hands together, as if I was washing them, to warm them up. How I wish I could wash my whole body. Clean it, feel the hot water carry away all the stress and the accumulated energy. Exercising would help, but my injury protests with a simple walk.  
I don't feel hungry. That's why I don't eat lunch. People piss me off, and I don't understand why I'm fighting my friends. I'm pushing them away, but what made me like this in the first place was the worry of not having anyone around. I'm stuck in a whirlpool and can't get out. I wish I could get a drink and have a smoke. I settle for gum.  
When sitting down, I rub at the marks on my leg over the pants and I absently-minded trace the pattern scribbled on my arm. I try and focus. But there's too much in my head.   
I wish I had a sharper blade, it would scare me more into not doing it.   
As I go through the day I laugh a few times, but I don't feel in the right to be happy, even if for a brief moment, to laugh at anything, it feels like swimming against the current of dark thoughts that are drooling and drowning my mind and consuming me slowly. But I am trying to fight it back.   
I try to talk with her. Her replies are short and dry. It's like a punch to the face.   
In my room I try to find a sharper blade, to no avail.  
I promised myself yesterday: "not tomorrow"  
I've never been good with keeping promises.  
But the blade doesn't feel right on my hand.   
So I don't do it.   
Not today.  
And far away I can see the stars coming out to greet me. Maybe it doesn't have to be bad after all.  
The walls are slowly being built again. They weren't hit at the base, just the very top, and it's easier to put them back up.  
I shouldn't try to talk with her again, at least not today. I can still see she's mad at me and that my reconciliatory intentions won't get across.  
So I step back and tell the stars to keep me company.


	3. Urge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It happened again. My hand's been slipping a lot lately, and it's a hard to break vice. But I need a let out and this is better than most ways. Good reading.

Felt like scribbling.   
Felt like punching the wall.  
Felt like texting her.   
Felt like crying for help.  
The feelings curse through me and I try to bottle them up, so I don't forget them like I do most things. Like I forget my hunger, my thirst, my medicine, my friends, my memories, the lyrics to that song I like, that phone number I used to call all the time.  
I don't want to forget because I'm scared of doing it again.   
Scribbling on my skin.   
It happened again.   
I didn't punch a wall.  
I didn't text her, I couldn't.  
I still feel like crying.  
Because it burns and it's no longer comforting. After a while it fades. At this point I should be used to it, but I'm not. I want to break the vice, but I can't.   
It's not beyond my reach. Not yet. With the tips of my fingers I can caress the delicate, transluscent fabric. I'm sure if I push through I'll be able to get a firm grip on it. Just a bit more.  
Almost there. I have to make through just one day without scribbling. I promise myself I'll try.


	4. Chapter 4

Distressed. Bored. Anxious. Lonely. Empty.  
The ache was intense. So intense and so painful, that I had to unload. I chose a different method this time. Instead of scribbling.  
My other strategies wouldn't have worked. The shaking was too violent.  
It got to a point where light punches weren't enough anymore. The pain inside of me was so intense that I wanted to break my finger, just so that my crying would feel justified.   
I didn't have the guts to do it, though.  
All I'm left with now is the residual physical pain.  
When I reach into my pockets, it hurts.  
When I crack my fingers.  
When I rest my head in my hands.  
And a faint purple bruise. I wanted more. I wanted it swollen and angry red.  
But you can barely see it. Just as most people can barely see the pain inside of me.  
They don't even care.  
I could go now, no one would know.


End file.
